Dave Gross: Lord of Stormweather

One of the dwarves on the ground shouted a familiar-sounding epithet. The vines had encircled both of his legs and was pulling him away from the struggling lizards, toward the squirming center of the patch.

"I am definitely too old for this," muttered Thamalon.

He ran toward the fallen dwarf, crouching low to present as small a target as possible to the unseen archers. His injured hip gave him a horrendous limp that might have looked comical in other circumstances.

The vines stripped the dwarf's axe from his hands and drew him deeper into their tangled mass, leaving the weapon behind.

"Roendhalg!" the dwarf's companion called, turning to cleave a path through the wriggling vines between them.

Arrows spanked off the back of his steel armor, but one found the gap between his helmet and his back plate. The dwarf reeled forward, clutching awkwardly at the arrow in his neck. The vines reached for his legs.

Thamalon snatched up Roendhalg's axe and chopped at the vines encircling the other dwarf's ankles. Three strokes was all it took to free him that far from the center of the creeper. The freed dwarf backstepped and fell as the shock of the arrow wound struck him fully. Thamalon dropped the axe and grabbed the fallen dwarf. He was heavier than he looked, even considering the armor.

"Get away!" shouted the dwarf atop the wagon.

He finally turned the flame weapon toward the creeper. The monstrous plant had already plucked the captured dwarf's helmet from his head and was peeling off his armor. Beneath his black beard, the dwarf's face was red from throttling, his eyes bulging, tongue distended.

Thamalon dragged his charge back toward the wagon. He heard a hiss as the dwarf atop the wagon squeezed the lever for his flame weapon.

"Wait!"

Heedless of Thamalon's shout, the dwarf unleashed a tremendous burst of fire upon the creeper and its captive. The vines thrashed as the flame blasted away their leaves, leaving nothing but the blackened stems and the immolated corpse of their last victim.

"Lift him up!" yelled the driver. He reached down to receive the lolling body of his wounded guard. Immediately after, he offered his arm to Thamalon. "Up you come!"

Inside the basket, Thamalon knelt beside the wounded dwarf while the driver once more took up his goad. While he was no battlefield surgeon, Thamalon knew the basics of tending a wound. Careful not to bump the driver as he beat and cajoled the draft beasts, Thamalon gently removed the wounded dwarf's helmet and began unbuckling his armor. He left the arrow in place. It had pierced the thick muscle of the dwarf's neck about a handspan away from his spine. Thamalon shrugged off his robe and tore a sleeve from his linen shirt to staunch the bleeding.

Behind them, someone in the second wagon blew a staccato blast on an iron horn. The wagons lurched forward as the reptiles slowly but steadily left the forest and their arboreal attackers.

Only after they were out of range of the arrows did Thamalon realize sadly that their attackers had almost certainly been elves. While he had no elf blood, Thamalon had always felt an affinity with the fair folk-so much so that he had sired a pair of twins with an elf woman named Trisdea, even after his marriage to Shamur.

"How fares Grunlaern?"

The driver's question spared Thamalon from further uncomfortable introspection. He glanced only briefly at Thamalon before returning his attention on the path ahead.

"It is a dire wound," reported Thamalon, "but not mortal, I think. As soon as we can stop, someone should cut out the arrowhead and bandage this properly."

They halted the caravan half an hour later, when the wagons were well clear of any trees. While one of the dwarves tended Grunlaern, the other examined the damage to their wagons. They plucked a few dozen arrows from the wagons, murmuring appreciatively when they saw none had penetrated the armored flanks.

"Well met," said one of the dwarves who'd operated the flame weapons. He carried his goggled helmet under one arm as he walked toward Thamalon. The dwarf smelled faintly of candied almonds. He clasped Thamalon's forearm in a gloved hand. "I am Baeron Longstrides of the Deepspire Miners, son of Hurglud of the Keen Nose, sub-commander of the throbe caravans."

"Well indeed," said Thamalon, returning the grasp. He'd already decided that he didn't wish his true identity known until he was sure he was among allies. "Call me Nelember the Far-Traveler."

The dwarf's eyes narrowed as he considered the introduction, but he slowly nodded. Thamalon had offered a sufficiently polite disclaimer that he wasn't sharing his true name.

"In fact, I am so far-traveled," added Thamalon, "that I have completely lost my way. Is your destination near?"

"Three days," said Baeron. "We owe you a service. If you wish it, you may ride with us."

Thamalon nodded. "I will. Perhaps there I can recover my bearings."

"No doubt of it," said Baeron. "For we travel to the greatest of all human bastions. We go to Castle Stormweather."

Chaney clambered up the outer wall of the Hunting Garden. How his spectral hands could grip the fine crevices between the granite blocks he still couldn't fathom. For some reason, the phenomenon seemed more paradoxical than the question of why he didn't sink into the ground when he walked, yet he could thrust his face through a wall and peer into the room beyond. He could see and hear, though he could no longer smell or taste, and he could barely feel.

The bodiless existence was full of conundrums.

Briefly he considered letting go to glide along in Radu's wake as the assassin spidered up the wall. It would be fun, unless he was pulled through the stone as Radu leaped down the other side. The sensation of passing through solid objects was unlike anything Chaney had experienced in life. It was an uncomfortable, disorienting numbness. It didn't hurt so much as it made him queasy and fearful of a sudden agony.

Besides, Chaney liked imitating an action that had been so familiar in life. The ghost smiled as he recalled a few of the windows through which he'd crept as a mortal man. He wished regretfully that he'd slipped through a few more before his life had ended.

Radu had tied his boots together and slung them over his shoulder. He had no special knack for climbing apart from his infernal strength and alacrity, but for this occasion he'd purchased a battery of spells from a Thayan witch.

Back at her waterfront shop, the dark-tressed woman had seemed well accustomed to anonymous customers, even masked swordsmen.

"Well met," Chaney had said to the woman. "I'm his haunting."

As Chaney expected, she didn't mark his presence.

Radu explained his needs, showed the woman a pair of tiny diamonds, and surrendered a third at her insistence. The witch took one of the gems and crushed it in an enchanted mortar. When she turned back to Radu, her dozen bracelets chimed as she raised her hands to pluck magic out of nothing.

Even through his high collar and mask, Radu could barely disguise his contempt for the spellcaster-or for himself, for needing her Art. Nevertheless, he stood motionless as she incanted her spells, fed him a spider squirming in bitumen, blew a pinch of cat's fur into his masked face, scattered the glittering dust of the crushed diamond over his shoulders, and finally snapped her fingers on her own eyelash rolled in a bit of tree gum. After the resultant flash, Radu faded from sight, even from Chaney's spectral eyes.

While the witch worked her magic, the shadowy ghosts that stood behind the assassin moaned and swayed like old willow trees on a dry creek bank. Chaney saw Radu's head turn slightly, as if the man noticed some distant sound but couldn't identify it.